


Family Album

by eilonwy



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Eventual Smut, F/M, Family Drama, Family Fluff, Fluff, HP: EWE, Humor, Magic, Marriage, Mild Language, Muggle Life, Muggle London, Romance, Spells & Enchantments, Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-06
Updated: 2017-02-06
Packaged: 2018-09-15 03:54:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9217595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eilonwy/pseuds/eilonwy
Summary: In this story, we'll be revisiting the young Malfoy family, whom we last saw at the birth of baby Kieran at the end ofBaby Days 2: The Turning of the Wheel.Each visit will be a snapshot of a particular moment in their lives.  In this first installment, Kieran has just turned two and big sister Rory is nearly four.Family Album is the fifth piece in the series that includesA Writer of Fictions, Second Chapter, Baby Days, andBaby Days 2: The Turning of the Wheel.





	1. Snapshot One: Spring 2010, Part 1

  
  
  
Monday evening  
8 March  
  
  
  
The pans tumbling out of the cupboard set up a clattering racket that was becoming all too familiar.

Busy making dinner, Hermione jumped at the sudden cacophony behind her. Turning, she spied little Kieran sitting on the floor, the lower cupboard doors open wide. He was looking immensely pleased with himself, his mother noted, her mouth twitching with barely contained amusement. Every single pot and pan was now on the floor, all helter-skelter. He’d managed to pull down several baking pans as well, and now he looked up at her, his pearly, little grin wide and blissfully happy.

“Out!” Kieran declared proudly. “I do it!”

“You certainly did,” Hermione laughed, crouching down to ruffle her two-year-old son’s soft, honey-coloured hair. “What about a spoon, Kieran? Would you like that?”

“”Poon! ‘Poon!” Kieran crowed, reaching his arms up to grasp the desired utensil.

Smiling, Hermione handed him a long, wooden spoon and sat down, Indian fashion, beside him. Immediately, he began banging on the nearest pot with joyful abandon. Grabbing a second spoon, she joined him, and together, they launched into a raucous symphony. 

“Mummy!” The sudden cry cut through the noise. It came from the playroom downstairs. “I need help!”

“What’s wrong, Rory?” Getting to her feet, Hermione hurried to the top of the stairs that led to the playroom downstairs. Her daughter’s voice hadn’t sounded alarmed, more petulant and frustrated.

“Poppy broke!” came the wail from below.

Interesting. Such a statement might be interpreted any number of ways, with a child like Rory. Inventive to a fault, with an imagination that seemed boundless, that was their Rory B. Sometimes, such creativity resulted in some real whoppers, but they were always told straight-faced and with utter sincerity.

“The kid’s got talent,” Draco had said on one such occasion. “She had _you_ fooled, Granger.”

“Oh, and not you, I suppose?” Hermione had snorted, crossing her arms.

“’Course not,” he’d replied, his little grin cocky. “Rory takes after her old man. Definitely Slytherin material.”

“I see.” She’d nodded gravely, biting back a laugh. “Well, I’m not convinced. We’ll just see where the Sorting Hat puts her.”

Considering that Rory was not quite four years old, that particular revelation was rather a long way off.

Now, one eye still on Kieran, Hermione took a step down, calling, “What’s happened to Poppy now?” 

The little toy dog had been through a series of unfortunate ordeals lately. Rory’s magic had recently begun to manifest itself in small, explosive bursts that came without warning, taking her parents completely by surprise.

Just then, the tumblers of the front door lock turned. A moment later, Draco poked his head into the kitchen, looking tired. The moment he spotted Kieran, however, his fatigue seemed to melt away and he broke into a smile.

“Daddy!” the toddler squealed, holding his arms out.

“There’s my little man!” Draco exclaimed, reaching down to lift Kieran up from the nest of cookware for a hug and a kiss. “How is Daddy’s big boy, then, eh? Have you been a good boy for Mummy?”

Kieran nodded his head emphatically. “Goo boy,” he burbled, pressing his face fondly into Draco’s neck.

Nose buried in his son’s hair, Draco took a deep whiff. Babies and small children smelt wonderful, he’d learned over the past few years. His own two were always fragrant with soap and baby shampoo, powder, and the fresh, clean scent of newly laundered pyjamas. 

Smiling, Hermione slipped her arms around him from behind, resting her cheek against his back.

“Hello, you,” she murmured. “I’m so glad you’re home. And yes, Kieran has been a very good boy indeed. Not so sure about his sister at the moment, though.” She gave a rueful, little laugh. “I’m afraid Poppy’s had another accident.” 

“Again?” Draco couldn’t help chuckling. “What’s she done now, blown his head off? Set him on fire?”

“Don’t joke, Malfoy! It’s really not funny, though you seem to think it’s just hilarious. Things are happening that she hasn’t learnt to control and doesn’t understand. And it’s way too soon as well. She’s not even four yet.”

“My mother thinks it’s a sign of extraordinary magical gifts.”

Hermione sighed. “I know. And she’s probably right. But –”

Catching her chin between his fingers, Draco leaned in, stopping her words with a quick kiss and then a longer, more leisurely one; for a moment, there was no sound except for Kieran’s little grunts as he began to squirm in his father’s arms.

Breaking away at last, Draco sighed, catching Hermione’s eye as he set the baby down. The smile he saw there warmed him and caused a pang of regret at the same time. Moments of intimacy, even brief ones, were fleeting these days, it seemed. There was always a child that needed tending for one reason or another, or else the obstacle of simple, overwhelming exhaustion.

Still. Life without Rory and Kieran was unimaginable now. Already, in their short lives, they’d given him more than he could ever have anticipated. Hard to believe, now, that he’d ever dragged his feet on the whole baby issue.

“ _Mummy!_ ” Now there were tears mixed with the summons.

Draco flashed her a quick grin. “I’ll go, shall I?”

Hermione nodded with relief. Rory had been out of sorts all day, and her mother was ready for a break. At least now, maybe she could finish getting supper ready. Assuming, of course, that Kieran would relinquish a pot or two.

A little while later, the family sat down to their evening meal, Rory in her booster seat, Kieran in the high chair, and one parent alongside each child.

“How was work today?” Hermione asked, cutting up the soft-cooked vegetables and small bites of chicken. Kieran was more than ready to eat, and eagerly, he reached into his plate and began to help himself.

“Daddy fixed Poppy,” Rory announced just as her father began to reply. 

Draco and Hermione exchanged glances over Rory’s head and he smiled wryly. “Leg issue. As in, he was an amputee.”

“Not all four, surely?” Hermione choked back a laugh despite herself.

“Afraid so, love.” Draco glanced at his daughter briefly, his own laughter barely contained. “Poor old Poppy. Whatever did he do to get you so fussed, Rory?”

The little girl pouted briefly. “He wasn’t being nice. He didn’t want to go for his walk.”

Of course. There was a certain bizarre logic to all this. The really weird thing was the discovery that one actually understood it.

“You see?” Hermione had regained her focus. There was a serious issue here. “I expect your mother is right, Draco,” she said, _sotto voce_ , “and eventually, we’ll see some really remarkable stuff emerging. But honestly, right now, we need to figure out how to handle it whilst it’s happening. It needs careful managing. We can’t just view it as something funny or cute or precocious.”

Draco forked up a bite of roasted chicken and nodded. “I know. You’re right, of course. Well, we’ll think about it and see what we can come up with, yeah?”

That sounded like a plan, at least for the moment. Hermione smiled, turning her attention back to the children, who had been happily scooping up their food with their fingers. Kieran was, in fact, wearing most of his all over his face and down the sizable bib protecting his clothes. For her part, Rory seemed quite pleased to morph back to her two-year-old self just long enough to wear a good part of her own dinner.

“Rory! Big girls don’t eat with their fingers!” Hermione shook her head, mildly dismayed. It was comical too, though she didn’t dare let on. Mealtime manners continued to be an uphill battle with her daughter, who seemed to take an even more pronounced delight in using her hands again, now that she had a baby brother who was allowed to use his.

Hermione opened her mouth to reply, but Draco held up a hand.

“You let Kieran,” Rory muttered darkly. “You and Daddy say ‘big boy’ to Kieran a lot.”

“That’s true. But Kieran is really a very little boy still. He’s only just learnt to use a spoon, and he can’t do it very well yet.” Draco smiled at Rory, laying a gentle hand on hers. “How old are you now, Sweetpea?”

Rory seemed to sit up a bit straighter in her chair at that. “Almost four!” she answered proudly, puffing out her chest.

“That’s right. ‘Almost four’ is a very big girl indeed. And big girls use forks and spoons. Mummy uses them, doesn’t she?”

Rory nodded solemnly.

“Grandma Claire and Grandmama Narcissa use them as well, don’t they? And your Aunties Ginny and Pansy?”

Another nod.

“Well, then. You wouldn’t want them to think you’re still a baby, would you? Of course not.” Both Draco’s voice and his logic had his daughter captivated. She seemed almost mesmerised, as if he’d been telling her a fascinating bedtime story, something he did with fair regularity. “So… what about using your big-girl fork for Daddy, then, eh? There’s a good girl.”

Quite happily now, Rory picked up her fork and stabbed a green bean with it, her eyes on her father all the while as she brought it to her mouth, popped the bean in, and chewed.

‘However does he do it?’ Hermione wondered, awestruck once again at the wonderful way her husband had with their daughter. Well, it wasn’t really a surprise, was it? She’d seen this coming virtually from the time Rory was a newborn. She’d known even then that something very special would grow between those two. 

And it had.

A few minutes of relative silence passed, and then Draco glanced at his wife. At the moment, her attention was fully occupied with returning Kieran’s face to a relatively clean state. Mushy peas, made even slimier by small fists squishing them, had dried into a green mask on his cheeks and chin, joined by the remains of cheese sauce from the macaroni. Stray bits of pasta and the odd bean or two were nesting in his hair. Hermione pressed her lips together, her face a mask of concentration.

“Oh, gosh, look at you!” she murmured, picking a noodle from above his ear. “You are going to need a bath. Maybe two!”

“Can we have a bath together, Mummy? Please?” Rory piped up eagerly.

This was asking for trouble, and Hermione knew it only too well. Whenever the two of them were in the tub together, a minor flood was inevitable.

“Sweetheart, I don’t –” she began doubtfully.

“But Daddy _promised!_ ” Rory directed a stubborn, take-no-prisoners glare at her parents. 

Caught. 

With a sheepish smile and a shrug, Draco nodded. 

“Well, then, I expect _Daddy_ would love to bath you both. Wouldn’t you, darling?” Hermione grinned slyly at her husband, reaching over to lift Kieran out of his high chair. “Off you go, then! Have fun,” she mouthed a moment later, winking.

Draco caught both children by the hand and led them out of the kitchen, glancing back at Hermione over his shoulder and rolling his eyes in mock martyrdom, his mouth twitching. He was the undisputed king of the evening bath. Before long, there would be giggles, shouts, and squeals of delight as the newest game got underway, every bath toy in the red, rubber bucket eventually finding its way into the tub.  
  
  


*

  
  
  
  
Later that night  
  
  
  
“Draco…”

The word was half whispered in the darkness. Its recipient was buried under the duvet, hunched over on his side and very still.

Hermione gave him a small tap on the shoulder, one part of his body not obscured by the bedclothes.

“Malfoy? Are you awake?”

The reply was low and muffled. “I am now.” With a small, regretful sigh, he rolled over, shaking himself into semi-alertness. “You all right, love? What is it?”

“I’m fine. It’s just… I’ve been thinking.”

“Uh oh.”

“Ha ha, very funny,” Hermione snorted, nudging Draco with her shoulder. “Seriously, though. I’ve been thinking about Rory and what your mother said about her. We really must make sure we handle this the right way. We don’t want her magic to get out of control or frighten her.”

“Or anyone else,” he mused, folding one arm behind his head. “There was that Floo call you got from her nursery-school teacher last week.”

“Exactly! That poor little kid was scared half out of his wits, wasn’t he. His parents must not have begun teaching him anything about his own abilities just yet, so what Rory did came as rather a shock.”

Draco let out a small, rueful laugh. “I’ll say. A head full of worms can’t be much fun. I reckon the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

It didn’t. Hermione’s own experience with emotion-induced, out-of-control magic, manifesting itself in just that way so many years earlier, was still a painful memory, happening long before she understood that she had magic, years before she had got her Hogwarts letter. At five, it was something strange and scary that had happened out of the blue and seemed to defy control. After that, friends at school had been difficult to make and keep. And the whispers and finger pointing had only served to underscore the fears she‘d about herself, buried but never forgotten.

Hermione nodded. “And Rory does have a temper. It doesn’t seem to take much for something to happen. I think we need to consider some sort of formal training.” 

“Early by the usual standards,” Draco murmured, drawing her close. “I mean, she’s hardly more than a baby. But I suppose it has to be done. I’ll talk to Mother about it. Maybe she can suggest something.”

“Or your father, perhaps. He’s got so many connections. He or your mother might know somebody who could tutor Rory.” She smiled into the darkness, resting her head on Draco’s warm, bare shoulder. “Thanks, love. I feel so much better now.”

Within a minute, she had fallen asleep. On the other hand, Draco now found himself wide awake and staring at the play of moonlight and shadows on the ceiling. If his mother were involved, chances were that his father would be as well, eventually. And what Lucius Malfoy might think appropriate for the training of a precociously talented little witch stood a very good chance of turning her parents right off. 

Draco hadn’t been quite as adept as Rory was proving to be at the age of three, but he remembered with a shiver what had happened just after his fifth birthday. It was high summer the day Master Fortescue had arrived. Brilliant sunshine and bright blue skies were an irresistible invitation to come outside and play in the warm, fragrant grass. With his arrival, however, Master Fortescue had sucked the warmth and cheer right out of the day, and out of virtually every day thereafter for the next five years. Stern, humourless and dour, his long, severe face was forever pulled down into a pruney mask of distaste and disapproval, as, with exaggerated patience, he endeavoured to school Draco in rudimentary spell work, control, focus, and the channelling of his magic. The esteemed tutor had been retained by the Malfoys at great expense, or so Lucius never failed to remind Draco whenever a less-than-stellar report from Fortescue had reached his ears; he remained a dreaded part of Draco’s life almost until his Hogwarts letter arrived. 

Well, he would be damned if the same first experience with magical tutelage were visited upon either of his children. Basely, he found himself wishing – hoping ¬– that his old tutor were dead, and then he heaved a resigned sigh. For every Fortescue no longer alive to humiliate children into submission, there were five more ready to take his or her place. Particularly in pure-blood society, there were still many who believed in the old-fashioned approach to education. Nothing worth having was easily achieved, and the more unpleasant the process, the better. Imagination and spirit? Creativity? Curiosity that challenged accepted norms? Merely unnecessary and troublesome baggage to be expunged from a child’s psyche.

Beneath all the frills and all that bloody _pink_ , Dolores Umbridge had borne an uncanny resemblance to his old tutor. Thinking back, he smiled grimly. Probably the reason she’d scared the living shit out of him and why he’d instinctively hated her from day one. One of the reasons, too, that it had been far easier to go along and join her Inquisitorial Squad. He could more easily deflect any suspicion of his changing feelings at that point, and as scary as she was, being on her good side was a whole lot less so. Everyone saw what had happened to Potter, what the outcome of open defiance had been. 

A brief, involuntary shudder rippled through him, and he shut his eyes in an effort to expel the memories that had intruded. The focus now must be on finding a way to contain and direct Rory’s magic that would be healthy and affirming. Fortescue was one of _his_ demons, not his daughter’s.

“ _Riddikulus!_ ” he whispered, a slow smile building. This was his house, safe and secure. Hermione lay warm and very real in his arms, their children just across the hall. His home and his family were his reality now, the one he’d built with his own choices. There was no longer any room for ghosts from the past, their dark tatters haunting the periphery of his thoughts. He would banish them. “Begone!”

Five minutes later, he was asleep.  
  
  


*

  
  
  
  
Saturday morning  
13 March  
  
  
  
Nine days. Nine days until their wedding anniversary. The eighth, amazingly.

Hermione stood back, gazing at the magnetised calendar tacked to the fridge. Surrounded by photos of the kids, community announcements, notices from Rory’s nursery school, finger-painting masterpieces, and birthday party invitations, the calendar was a beacon of organisational sanity. 

The 22nd had been circled in red and she hadn’t done it. Proof positive that Draco hadn’t forgotten. Neither had he said a single word about it. Not one clue. By this time, she knew better than to try to worm it out of him, however. If she wanted to find anything out, she would need all of her detective skills – and whatever her magic allowed her to open, riffle through, and close again without leaving a trace. Now would be the perfect time to start investigating; Draco had taken the kids to the nearby parkland up on Primrose Hill and had promised them a visit to the zoo after lunch. Hermione would join them later for both of those activities, but that left her with at least another hour to herself, sorely needed and much appreciated.

Just then, the phone rang.

“Hello? Oh hi, Mum. Fine, how are you? And Dad? Yes, they’re fine too. Draco’s taken them out for the morning. I know! I can’t quite get used to all the quiet!”

Hermione laughed, sitting down at the centre island and taking a sip from her mug of coffee. For a couple of moments, she sat quietly listening as her mother carried on talking.

“Yes, I… Of course. Right, the 22nd. Our eighth. I know, I can’t believe it either. It’s almost a decade! (pause) Would you? Oh, gosh, that would be amazing! Yes, of course. I’m sure he’ll be thrilled as well. I’ll ring you later and we’ll work out the arrangements. Give Daddy my love. Bye, Mum! And thanks!”

Well! This was a fortuitous turn of events. It was almost as if her mother had intuited thoughts that hadn’t yet crystallised in Hermione’s mind. Truth to tell, she hadn’t even realised that their eighth wedding anniversary was nearly upon them until just the other day, and then, with a sudden jolt, she’d remembered.

This idea of her mother’s couldn’t be more perfect though, Hermione reflected. They’d take the kids next Saturday and mind them until Tuesday morning, giving her and Draco enough time to really get away and make a long weekend of it. Three whole days. The mere thought was positively blissful.

Smiling happily and humming to herself, Hermione sprinted upstairs for a quick shower. Lunch and the zoo with her family awaited, and her spirits soared with sudden excitement and anticipation. Wait till she told Draco. He really would be thrilled.

Ninety minutes later, they were strolling along the footpaths that circled the zoo, Rory skipping alongside them, entranced by everything around her, and Kieran tucked into a frame pack on his father’s back. The little boy laughed and crowed, clapping his small hands over his father’s ears and grabbing fistfuls of his hair as he enjoyed his bird’s-eye view of the world.

“Oh! Guess what?” Hermione was practically bouncing with excitement. She’d waited till after lunch to tell Draco the news, the better to keep the conversation just between them and not involve the children just yet. “Mum called earlier. They’ve offered to take the kids next weekend so we can go away!”

“Oh, yes?” Draco’s expression was pleasant and only mildly curious. “Why next weekend?”

“Prat! You know why!” She giggled and gave him a small, friendly poke in the ribs. “I know you know, too, because you were the one who circled the date on the calendar. In red.” She paused and looked at her husband sharply. “ _Didn’t_ you?”

Draco shrugged airily, the smallest half-grin playing about his lips. “Reckon it’s one of those calendars with a self-reminder feature. When there’s an important date, it appears circled in red, just in case its owners manage to forget. Good thing, too, as I haven’t the faintest idea what date you might be talking about.”

“Oh, I see. Really. No idea at all.” Hermione kept a straight face and played along, because of course, Draco was having her on. She hoped. “Right, then. I’ll just tell them to forget it, shall I, because we won’t be going anywhere.” 

Draco nodded gravely, pushing Kieran’s small foot away from his face. “Good idea. Well, regarding the first part of what you just said, anyway. And most particularly as all requisite child-minding arrangements were made weeks ago. By me. Beginning next Saturday morning and finishing the following Tuesday afternoon.” 

The grin he gave her was dazzling and not a little bit triumphant. 

Hermione’s mouth fell open. “What arrangements? What have you done?” Then her eyes narrowed. “Self-reminding calendars my eye!” she snorted. “It _was_ you, I knew it!”

Now Draco looked positively smug. “’Course it was, love. Did you really think I’d forget our anniversary? And I’ve got the childcare all arranged, as I said. My parents offered – well, Mother did, and Father will be pleased enough, I’m sure – and I said yes. We’re to bring Rory and Kieran to the Manor next Saturday after breakfast.”

Hermione stopped once again and reached out to touch Draco’s arm. “But… what about my parents? I told them yes. They were so excited to have the kids next weekend! They’ll be really disappointed!”

Draco thought for a moment and then a mischievous grin quirked the corners of his mouth. “Only one solution, the way I see it,” he sighed. “Have the lot of them come to our house and stay with the kids there. We’ve enough room.”

Hermione frowned apprehensively. She wasn’t so sure about this idea. “And who gets to sleep in our bedroom?” she asked. The thought of her staid, high-maintenance in-laws sleeping on a foldout sofa bed in the downstairs playroom was bizarre, to say the least. 

“They can toss a coin for it,” Draco replied glibly. “Don’t get your knickers in a twist over something so trivial. It’s only three nights.”

“I wouldn’t call that lumpy sofa bed a triviality,” she muttered. “My shoulder still hurts from when…”

Draco put a warning finger to his lips and winked. “Little pitchers, as my dear grandmama always used to say.”

Hermione laughed quietly. Draco was right. It wouldn’t do for Rory to catch wind of what she’d been about to say. That sofa bed had seen some rather strenuous activity one evening recently after the kids were sound asleep and its owners had enjoyed a glass or two of very good wine. There had been a highly contested bet on how much stress the sofa bed could take, and in any case, it was the only adult-sized bed in the house that hadn’t been tried out, and that definitely needed to be remedied. 

“Well, all right, then,” she said eventually. “We’ll just have to tell all of them that we’d prefer them to come here, and that they’ll be sharing the child-minding duties. I’m sure they’ll get on famously.”

In truth, she wasn’t at all sure, even as well as their parents got along as a rule. This was a very different circumstance to spending just a few hours in each other’s company. But it was either take a chance and hope for the best or forfeit the opportunity for a much-needed weekend away somewhere. Anywhere, Hermione thought, suddenly feeling slightly desperate. Much as she enjoyed her life as a stay-at-home mother, she really needed some relaxing and stimulating adult time away from the daily routine. And she knew that Draco did too. Forfeiting was not an option.

“I’ll ring Mum and Dad when we get home,” she decided, “and you can send Paladin to the Manor with a message for your parents as well. I’ll feel lots better once we’ve got everything settled. And then, let’s see… I should put together a list of instructions for them…”

Draco cast a sideways glance at his wife and couldn’t resist a small, private grin. In typical Hermione fashion, she was already making mental lists of everything she could possibly tell both her parents and his own about the kids: their habits, favourite meals and snacks, bath and bedtime rituals, favourite toys, books and games, medicines, vitamins, neighbours’ names and contact information, the lot. Left to her, everything would be well in hand by bedtime. By the time the grandparents arrived, there would be about a hundred bits of parchment affixed to the fridge, all details well organised and thoroughly explained.

Well in hand was precisely where he wanted things to be, he decided happily; it left him free to concentrate on his plans for _their_ weekend. No lists required. Just his beautiful, brainy, well-organised wife, a hotel with all the amenities, and a big, cosy bed. The rest would take care of itself.

  
  
  
  
  
  


TBC


	2. Snapshot One: Spring 2010, Part 2

Saturday  
20 March

 

The comings and goings next door were enough to put a sane woman right off her tea and scones. Or rather, they would have done, hypothetically, had Beryl not made a herculean effort to polish everything off despite all the noise that had interrupted things.

Still. All the fuss and bother had come right in the middle of the older witch’s Enlightenment, Harmony, and Self-Actualisation Hour. Nobody seemed to understand how very difficult it was, attaining the proper frame of mind and holding onto it despite any outside distractions. Meticulously blended tea, made from specially potent herbs grown in her own back garden, along with the consumption of precisely three homemade scones – her very own recipe, for which a pinch or two of the dried leaves of certain other, quite powerful plants added to the batter boosted the scones’ efficacy twentyfold – were the cornerstone of her EHS Hour, a daily practice she’d stuck to religiously for forty years. The timing today could not have been more unfortunate. 

Most of the time, she could forgive some of the racket that came from next door. The young couple – lovely people, truly, the wife so gifted and yet Muggleborn, and her dashing husband with such an illustrious family name and magical heritage – had two very young children, after all, and “how often have I offered to mind them, I ask you!” she muttered to herself, rising with some effort and a soft grunt from the upholstered chair and waddling in the direction of the kitchen to fetch herself a second cup. Hermione in particular was usually very careful to keep the children quiet between three and four in the afternoon. Beryl suspected that she’d engineered things so that it would coincide with the children’s naptime, and nothing could have been more timely.

Today, however, everything had gone topsy-turvy. At half twelve, just as Beryl was about to bite into a forkful of savoury shepherd’s pie, hot and fragrant from the oven, there was a vigorous knock on the Malfoys’ door, one door over from her own. This was followed, several seconds later, by loud exclamations from a middle-aged man and woman as they were greeted. Young Mrs. Malfoy had been thoroughly thrilled; these people were her parents, Beryl knew. The woman looked very like an older version of her young neighbour, right down to the wavy, chestnut-brown hair; she and her husband were very nice and really quite normal for non-magical folk. Squeals of delight erupted almost immediately afterwards, and from the vantage point of a well-placed picture window, Beryl spotted little Rory rushing out to greet her grandparents, followed by the smaller and infinitely noisier toddler, Kieran. 

If it had ended there, it would not have proven such a bother, and Beryl would not now be whipping up an elixir from the ground roots of dried black cohosh, passionflower, white willow bark, and feverfew. She hoped the potion would banish the headache that pounded between her eyes, beginning when her meditation hour had been interrupted and growing exponentially from there. It hadn’t helped when, just as things had begun settling down a bit, there was another round of loud, high-pitched exclamations from the children. A discreet peek out the window told Beryl that this time, it was young Mr. Malfoy’s parents who had just arrived. Awestruck as she invariably was whenever she’d caught a glimpse of the elegant couple, tall and blond and impeccably dressed, the gleeful shrieks from the children rattled painfully inside her head and she winced, turning away and resolving to put her potions and healing skills to good use immediately.

“Nevertheless,” she told herself, working the pestle with great energy and grinding the various ingredients down to a fine powder in the well-worn, wooden mortar, “I am not one to hold a grudge, Merlin knows, and children will be children, the little darlings. I shall drop by later and bring them all some lovely shortbread. They’ll be very glad of a nice, homemade treat with their tea, I’m sure.”

Hidden agendas being what they were, the true purpose of Beryl’s would not be entirely clear even after she’d gone back home again, leaving behind a plateful of rock-hard biscuits that bore a startling resemblance to squares of concrete. But while she was there, Draco had a hunch he knew the reason she’d suddenly turned up.

“Oh my stars, am I intruding? I’m so terribly sorry!” Beryl gushed, smiling ingratiatingly at everyone assembled in the sitting room, a tableau of toddlers and grandparents frozen in the midst of play as they looked up to see who had just come into the house. 

There was a bit of newly applied, tomato-red lipstick on one of her front teeth, Draco noticed with some distaste. “Not at all, Beryl,” he managed, fighting to keep his expression neutral. “What can we do for you?”

“Oh, well, I’ve just baked a pan of shortbread, you see, and I thought perhaps your little ones might enjoy it at tea time. But you have company. I’ll just see myself out.”

Despite her words to the contrary, Beryl didn’t move a muscle, instead continuing to smile at the assembled company in the sitting room as if something extraordinary were about to happen.

“Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy, isn’t it?” she burbled, catching Lucius’ eye. “It’s lovely to see you again. We’ve met before, of course, several times. Surely you remember.”

Judging by the look on Lucius Malfoy’s face, the memory – if indeed there had been one – had either been deeply repressed or deliberately discarded as not worth the brain matter it would require to recall it. He looked at her now, distaste warring with the blankness of his expression. 

“And you are…?” he said imperiously, rising to his feet, though he didn’t move any closer. 

Nevertheless, Beryl blanched, backing away a couple of steps. The elder Malfoy was rather intimidating even from a distance, and suddenly, her resolve to further her acquaintance with such an influential and powerful couple in the upper echelons of wizarding society dissolved into jelly.

“Nobody at all… er… that is… I’m a neighbour, you see. Next door. Beryl. Mountbank. Pleasure.” Turning to Draco, and now to Hermione as well, as she’d come to stand just behind him, Beryl tittered nervously and pressed the pan of shortbread into Hermione’s hands. “For the kiddies. Enjoy. Must dash. I just remembered. Something’s in the oven.”

A moment later, she was gone.

“And that, Father, in case you really didn’t remember, is our next-door neighbour, Beryl Mountbank.” Draco closed the door behind her with a wry grin. “Busybody and an absolutely dreadful cook. Do not eat that shortbread on peril of your life.”

“Oh, come on, Malfoy, she’s not as bad as all that!” Hermione protested, but she was laughing despite herself. “Or, well… maybe she is, really, but she’s a sweet old thing and ultimately quite harmless. And she has a very kind heart.”

“Quite a character, isn’t she,” Richard Granger observed, his mouth twitching. “Think I’ll pass on the shortbread, thanks very much. Is she…?”

“A witch?” Hermione nodded. “Virtually everyone living in this neighbourhood has magic. She’s actually a rather talented herbalist and potions maker. She’s got the most marvellous garden, and she’s been very generous with it, letting me harvest things for my own potions. You just have to be patient with her manner. She can be a bit overbearing at times, but she means well.”

“Means well, my arse,” Draco muttered from behind her so that only she could hear. “Bet you ten Galleons the old bat turned up because she knew somehow that my parents were here. Shameless opportunist and sycophant, that’s what she is, on top of all the rest.”

Hermione couldn’t deny it. “Still,” she said, catching his hand in hers, “she’s rather a dear old thing for all that, and I think she’s a bit lonely, really. A bit dotty, yes, interfering and nosy, but –”

“I know, I know,” Draco sighed. “She means well.”

*

Late Saturday afternoon

 

It had only taken two full hours for Draco to get Hermione out of the house and away on their anniversary weekend. She’d felt compelled to explain every single instruction she’d written and posted on the fridge, as if her lengthy written explanations weren’t sufficient. She’d felt almost a visceral need to show all the grandparents where everything was, down to the last nappy and bath toy. There was a piece of parchment, so lengthy that it had had to be rolled up, devoted to detailing potential hazards for toddlers and pre-schoolers in a slew of possible scenarios. 

At last, Claire gave her daughter a weary smile. “Sweetheart, it isn’t as if we’re neophytes where raising children is concerned. After all, we raised you, and you turned out well enough, don’t you think? And we managed not to kill or maim you along the way.”

“Yes, now go along, you two,” Narcissa chimed in. “The four of us have everything well in hand. Or we will do, as soon as you leave. There might be tears when you say goodbye, you know,” she added, “but that’s absolutely normal. They’ll be fine once you’re out of sight.”

Hermione hadn’t thought of that aspect of leaving, never having left the children for more than a few hours at a time. Now they’d be gone a full three days and nights. The thought of her babies distraught and inconsolable without her brought tears to her own eyes. Embarrassed, she blinked very hard to banish them.

This was not lost on Draco, who slung an arm around his wife’s shoulders and gave her a quick squeeze. “They’ll be fine, Granger. Between the four of them, I reckon our parents can manage two little kids for three days.”

“But –” Hermione began.

“Ah ah!” He cut her off, shaking his head and grinning. “Come on, love. We should’ve left an hour ago. They’ll be _fine._ ”

Grabbing their luggage, he nudged her gently towards the fireplace, from which they would travel via the Floo network to their hotel. 

Just before he flung the Floo powder, she stopped him. 

“Malfoy, wait! I just want to say goodbye one more time!”

The four grandparents looked at each other with knowing smiles. An anxious mother had to be appeased, whatever it took.

Rory and Kieran had been put down for their afternoon nap not long before, so both were still half-awake when their parents came upstairs.

“You’ll be a good girl for Grandma Claire and Grandpa Richard, and for Grandmama Narcissa and Grandpapa Lucius, won’t you?” Hermione whispered, ruffling Rory’s soft, white-blonde curls fondly. “And Mummy is counting on you to help take care of Kieran, make sure he’s a good boy for your grandparents. You can be such a big help, you know.”

Rory looked up from where she lay, curls framing the pillow, and nodded, all seriousness. “Yes, Mummy. I will. I promise.”

“Daddy and I will ring you and your brother every day. But if you need to talk to us, you may call. Just ask Grandma Claire or Grandpa Richard to help you with the phone.”

Rory nodded once again, and then she thrust out her small arms, reaching up for a hug. This nearly did Hermione in completely, and she scooped her small daughter up and held her close, renegade tears pricking her lashes once again. 

Behind her, Draco smiled fondly. When it was his turn, he simply enveloped Rory in a tight embrace, giving her an extra squeeze and whispering something in her ear. The answering giggle brought a smile to everyone’s lips. And then Rory drew her beloved Poppy close, gave the little stuffed animal a sniff, and closed her eyes.

As they walked down the hall to Kieran’s room, Hermione gave Draco a quizzical glance. “What did you say to her?”

“Oh,” he teased, smiling mysteriously, “that’s a secret between Rory and me. I might tell you someday. And I might not.”

“Oh, really!” Hermione feigned annoyance. “Well, that’s all right. I’m really not all that interested anyway. Have your little secret.”

Kieran was sound asleep by the time they got there, so they left tender kisses on his forehead and tiptoed out again. Knowing their son’s temperament and the difficulty he generally had in settling down, it was better to let him sleep than to wake him for a moment’s goodbye. He’d follow Rory’s lead in any case; if she were okay with them going for the weekend, he would very likely be fine with it too.

Ten minutes later, they’d vanished in a small explosion of green sparks that lit the sitting room hearth. The four grandparents breathed a collective sigh of relief.

*

That evening

 

Supper was, to put it mildly, something of an eye opener for all concerned. Far from the docile children that both the Grangers and the Malfoys were accustomed to seeing, there were two rather unruly kids, hell bent on making a mess. Little spaghetti rings were everywhere; they managed to travel all over small faces, hands, and shirt fronts (thank the gods for bibs!), and even became a fine paste on areas of the scalp where little fingers had mashed them.

The reactions to two wilful, spirited, very verbal children of newly two and going-on-four ran the gamut. The two grandmothers were surprised, exasperated and dismayed in equal measure, and in the end, simply resolved just to tidy their grandchildren up by running a good bath, which would make them sleepy as well as transforming them back into their recognisable selves. A quick _Scourgify!_ from Narcissa helped to eliminate the worst of the mess, both on the children and on their immediate surroundings.

The grandfathers were a different story.

Whereas Richard Granger found the whole thing rather amusing, much as he would be loath to admit it (he remembered Hermione’s predilection for much the same behaviour as a toddler), the frown on Lucius Malfoy’s face was unmistakable. It battled for control with an expression of creeping disgust at the state his grandchildren had got themselves into, as well as a clear aura of disapproval. Children should not, he would argue much later that evening, once Rory and Kieran were safely tucked up in bed for the night, be permitted to run wild and do whatever they pleased. Not only that, but manners were essential in polite society. It didn’t matter which social circles one frequented. Good manners were just that, and they were necessary to becoming a well-rounded, contributing member of society someday. This was especially important at the table. Draco had never been permitted to behave in such a manner. 

“Of course,” Narcissa reminded her husband, “when Draco was this young, he was given his meals in the nursery. Missy oversaw all of that.”

“Yes, and she taught him proper manners,” Lucius fired back. “Something that our son and daughter-in-law apparently aren’t all that concerned with.” He leaned back in the armchair, shaking his head. “I shall have a talk with Draco when they return.”

“No, you shall not,” his wife replied, not missing a beat. “We shan’t interfere, and that’s that. Draco and Hermione will raise their children as they see fit.”

“Hear, hear!” Claire chimed in, walking into the sitting room with a second cup of coffee. “Much as I appreciate a well-behaved child, particularly around food, we really shouldn’t interfere. Draco and Hermione need to be able to run this house and raise their children the way they feel is proper. Don’t you agree, Richard?”

Caught in the middle of lighting his pipe, Richard glanced up, startled. He hadn’t expected to be put on the spot like this, something he really didn’t appreciate Claire doing, and now he found himself in the uncomfortable position of having to take sides and possibly cause some bad blood between himself and Draco’s father.

“Well, yes, of course,” he began, carefully hedging, “but I certainly understand Lucius’ point of view as well. There is a middle ground, and that is what our daughter and your son need to discover. Perhaps we could drop a gentle hint about mealtime manners, couching it in terms that aren’t critical but that still emphasise the importance of instilling good behaviour at table. As grandparents, our opinions do carry some weight, I believe. And whilst we’re here and in charge of mealtimes, we can try to encourage the sort of behaviour we’d like to see. Better and cleaner,” he added, with a chuckle.

With a flick of a match, his pipe was lit, and small puffs of aromatic smoke rose from his mouth into the air as he leaned comfortably back against the sofa cushions. 

‘Muggles,’ Lucius found himself thinking, with an inward sigh. ‘They simply do not understand.’

Later still, the same thought made its way into the bedtime conversation. Very generously, as Narcissa made sure to point out, the Grangers had offered to sleep downstairs in the children’s playroom, the sofa bed far less daunting to them, apparently, than they expected it might be to the Malfoys. Now, a warming fire dying down in the hearth, Lucius watched from beneath the covers as Narcissa brushed out her silky, blonde hair at the dressing table. Still beautiful, he thought warmly. Just as lovely as ever.

“Come to bed, Cissa,” he said eventually, patting the coverlet. “I imagine we shall be having an early morning tomorrow –”

“And the next day, and the day after that,” Narcissa interrupted, laughing quietly, “if I know those two grandchildren of ours.”

“Indeed.” Lucius nodded. “You know,” he added, as Narcissa slipped into bed beside him, “I wonder just how much of our way of life Hermione’s parents truly understand, or care to understand. It occurred to me earlier tonight that they can’t possibly grasp what it really means.”

“But darling, their daughter has been a part of our world for nearly twenty years,” his wife pointed out, snuggling closer beneath the covers. “I hardly think they’re wide-eyed innocents. They seem quite comfortable with much of it. At least nothing seems to shock them at this point.”

“But they can’t possibly understand, and I don’t just mean magic itself, though that is tremendous, of course. I also mean our history, particularly what it means to be part of an ancient family like ours, yours and mine both. Our lineage is very long and rich. I can trace my ancestors back hundreds of years, and you very nearly can as well. That carries a great deal of responsibility. It informs our behaviour and our choices to a great degree. And not only regarding what we do now, but what we will do, and what traditions and rituals we elect to pass on to future generations. I don’t know whether Draco will ever wish to live in the Manor, but one day, it will all be his, and eventually, his children’s.”

“You mean Kieran’s,” Narcissa interjected pointedly. “We shall have to discuss that further, you know. The custom of the son inheriting to the exclusion of the daughter has been passé for a very long time.”

Lucius was not about to argue with her just now. He’d learnt long ago to pick his battles. “Yes, well, be that as it may,” he replied, his eyes beginning to drift shut, “traditions are extremely important, very much the same as proper behaviour. It occurs to me that living here, far too much of our way of life has become relaxed or has even been discarded altogether. Too much is being sacrificed.”

“The world is a different place now.” Narcissa sighed sleepily, stretching and then burrowing deeper into the pillows. “That’s a reality we must face if we wish to move forward. We can’t expect that life will look and function as it did before the war. Everything’s different now, and that’s as it should be. I confess, I rather like what I see. I think the changes are healthy. Rory and Kieran will not have the heavy burdens that tradition put on our son. It was different for us. We didn’t question anything. But that’s changed too.”

Lucius said nothing, but she could see by the set of his mouth that he wasn’t entirely happy with the truth of her words. He’d never really adapted well to change, she knew, and that remained the case even now, twelve years after the war. But undeniably, he had come a very long way, and she would not take one ounce of credit away from that achievement. The rest would happen in its own time, she felt certain. For now, they had their son’s children in their care, and no doubt, the little ones would be rousing them at the crack of dawn. 

“Turn off the light, darling,” she murmured. “Sleep now.”

*

It happened on Sunday afternoon and took everyone by surprise. Everyone, that is, except for Draco and Hermione, who learned of the incident shortly afterwards, when Narcissa’s head materialised suddenly in the fireplace of their hotel suite, eyes discreetly shut in case she might be interrupting anything.

“Draco! Hermione! Are you there?”

As it happened, they had just finished a lazy brunch in bed, courtesy of room service. Fortunately, both were sufficiently dressed that no scrambling for a cover-up was necessary. Nevertheless, Hermione grabbed her dressing down and slipped it on over her nightie, hastily smoothing out the wildness from her hair. No doubt it would be a dead giveaway of their earlier activity in the king-size bed.

Draco, clad just in pyjama pants, yanked a t-shirt over his head and called it a day. The sight of him in pyjamas was hardly new to his mother.

“You can open your eyes, Mother. We’re decent,” he laughed. “What’s up?”

“Are the kids okay?” Hermione rushed to add, leaning forward, her eyes suddenly very wide and dark with concern.

Narcissa looked rather tired, which was no surprise either to her son or to his wife. “Oh, yes, the children are perfectly all right. No need to fret. It’s just… well, something happened a bit earlier today that we felt you should know about.” 

“What?” Hermione and Draco said together. This sounded just a tad ominous.

Green flames flickered eerily about Narcissa’s face, giving her the appearance of an Otherworldly creature. Her expression was worryingly serious, despite her efforts to smile reassuringly.

“The children were having their breakfast. We thought it might be nice for them to have their meal on the patio, as the weather is so lovely and mild today.”

So far, so good. Hermione and Draco glanced at each other and waited for the other shoe to drop. 

“At one point, a small, brown rabbit hopped out from between the shrubs. The children were entranced, and immediately wanted the rabbit for a pet. They asked if they might, but the four of us said no, for a variety of reasons.”

“Good,” Hermione murmured. “It would’ve been cruel and wrong to take that little animal out of its natural element and away from its family. I’m glad you were firm with Rory and Kieran.”

Draco nodded his agreement. “Not only that, but we don’t believe in giving the kids everything they ask for. They need to learn patience and that they can’t get whatever they want in life, just because they want it.” 

This was a lesson he himself had never had to learn, having got most everything he’d ever desired just for the asking, though such spoiling had always come with a price tag of some sort from his father. Apparently, his mother and father had gradually come round to a different and more realistic point of view, or at least, his mother had. A very good thing too, as Draco did not want Rory and Kieran to grow into the sort of spoilt, entitled child of privilege that he’d been.

“What happened then?” he asked carefully, although suddenly, he _knew_. He glanced at Hermione; it seemed she was having a similar epiphany, and it wasn’t a happy one.

“Rory didn’t take being told no at all well. She grew quite cross, her face became flushed, and she began to cry. Suddenly, she shut her eyes very tightly, and the next thing we knew, all the dishes on the table flew off and crashed to the ground. Plates of food, glasses of milk, all of it went flying.” Narcissa sighed. “You do realise what this means, I’m sure. I can only suppose that you’ve had episodes of a similar nature before now.”

It was a statement, not a question. Hermione and Draco were forced to nod in agreement.

“Clearly,” Narcissa went on, “ there are two issues here: one, her behaviour in response to being told no. You’re quite right, darling; children do need to learn patience, and that merely wanting something doesn’t guarantee that they will get it. In retrospect, I wish we’d taught you that lesson when you were a child. Instead, we spoilt you and taught you the opposite. If things had been different…” She shook her head, the memories clearly painful to recall, and then her mouth twisted in a faint ghost of a smile. “Never mind. It’s in the past now. Thank Merlin, you’ve become a fine man. But of course, you will want to address this growing wilfulness in Rory. She is headstrong and stubborn, both qualities that may well be to her advantage later in life, but such tendencies must also be curbed, as I’m sure you are well aware. Tantrums are most unappealing and never reflect well on the child or on her parents. 

“The other issue, of course, is her magic. My dears, surely you must realise that as unfortunate as its manifestations sometimes are, your daughter has a remarkable gift. That powers like these should show themselves before she has even turned four is extraordinary! I’ve been suggesting for months that she needs special tutelage, and now I am more convinced than ever. Your father agrees.”

“And does he have any suggestions for tutors?” Draco’s tone was laced with a hint of bitterness he’d been unable to conceal completely. “Because quite frankly, if Father’s judgement on such matters is anything to go by, I –”

“Have you somebody in mind, Narcissa?” Hermione interjected swiftly, plastering an upbeat smile on her face. She could see the unhealthy direction Draco was heading in and knew it wouldn’t end well if he’d pursued it further. 

Narcissa smiled at her daughter-in-law. Her face, wavering in the flames and quite green, was still beautiful, despite the weirdness of Floo conversation. “As a matter of fact, yes,” she replied, glad to have been asked. “There is a young man, the son of friends of ours, who might be just perfect. His magical talents are extraordinary, his family lineage quite ancient… Not that such a thing matters anymore, of course,” she hastened to add. “It just so happens, though, that his family is one of the oldest in England, magical or Muggle. And finally, he is quite wonderful with children, so I’ve heard. He was a live-in tutor for the Wyecrofts until just this past December. They moved to Spain in January and reluctantly decided that their son had learnt all he could from Philip. Philip Sparrow – that’s the young man’s name, by the way.”

Draco lounged back against the bed’s headboard, brows knitted together in thought. “Sparrow. Is he related to Charles Sparrow, by any chance?” The latter was somebody that Draco knew slightly from weekend Quidditch matches. Damn good beater, he recalled.

Narcissa nodded avidly. “Yes, as a matter of fact. Charles is his older brother. We have recently become rather friendly with the parents, Hubert and Cordelia. I understand Philip is quite a whiz at Quidditch as well. He might possibly be able to coach Rory in flying.”

“ _When the time comes_ ,” Hermione and Draco rejoined emphatically and then he frowned momentarily. That would be _his_ job and his pleasure to teach his children, not a tutor’s.

“Yes, all right!” Narcissa gave a light, little trill of laughter. “I meant eventually, of course.” There was a pause during which silence fell, punctuated only by the occasional crackling of the flames. Everyone seemed to be waiting for someone else to speak first. Hermione and Draco glanced at each other, a bit uneasy at being put on the spot.

“All right, Mother,” he said at last. “I reckon he sounds like a worthy prospect. You can contact him and tell him we’d be interested in a first meeting.”

“Just to talk, of course,” Hermione added quickly. “See how we get on together, and more importantly, how he gets on with Rory.” 

Narcissa nodded, trying to contain her pleased approval. True, they hadn’t hired her friend’s son, not yet, but she felt confident they soon would after meeting him.

*

“Why did you do that?”

The question, quietly insistent, came out of the blue. They’d been dozing comfortably on and off since Narcissa’s fire call had ended, but now Draco’s voice broke the quiet that hung over their hotel room.

“Do what, love?”

“Stop me saying what I’d been about to say about my father and his choice of tutors.”

Hermione had been hoping to avoid this very conversation. No such luck, apparently.

“I didn’t want you and your mother to have words, especially as her intentions are for the best,” she said quietly. “And really, from everything you’ve told me, what happened between you and your tutor was much more with your father’s approval, not your mother’s in any real sense.”

This was true. Not that it was much consolation. His mother hadn’t done anything to stop it, even if she hadn’t approved. Draco frowned, unpleasant memories rising like wraiths, unbidden, from the black place of his nightmares and regrets. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to banish them.

“It wasn’t just the question of tutors,” he murmured. “It was something else Mother had been about to say and then stopped herself. Did you notice?”

She had, only hoping at the time that Draco had not caught the remark.

“Funny, isn’t it,” he went on, and the sudden bitterness in his voice was unmistakable. “Ironic, really. Mother sees, now, that spoiling a child and teaching a sense of entitlement is wrong. Do you ever wonder what sort of kid I’d have been, if they hadn’t hammered that into me all my life? I do. Maybe I’d have made very different choices, beginning with friends. Maybe they’d have been real friends, instead of little toadies ready to kiss up to me all the time. Maybe I’d have had a bloody backbone and thought for myself instead of swallowing all the rubbish my lot believed in. Maybe I’d have been on the right side of the war from the start. The side your lot were on. Then I wouldn’t have had to pretend all of seventh year. Wouldn’t have had to see and do all those horrible things they made me –”

He was getting quite worked up now. Quickly, Hermione slipped her arms around him, pulling him close. 

“Stop! That’s in the past now. Your mother was right; you’ve become a fine man, and you’ve done it all on your own with choices _you_ made these last twelve years. Don’t forget that. Clearly, your mother regrets certain decisions she and your father made when you were a child. She’s come to realise that the way they brought you up –”

“A spoilt, arrogant little shit!”

Hermione smiled grimly, nodding. “Well, yes. That it was ultimately very harmful.”

“I doubt my father has arrived at that conclusion,” Draco muttered. He stared out the window, unseeing.

“Possibly not, though you know how much he regrets other aspects of your childhood that could have been different. He’s already said as much.”

This was true as well. A rather significant thaw in their relationship had come just over three years earlier, when Lucius had opened up to his son in a way he had never done before, confessing his regrets for leaving Draco with a childhood essentially bereft of a genuine paternal presence and asking for forgiveness. Nevertheless, it was doubtful that Lucius regretted the particular values of entitlement he’d taught Draco, even if his wife did; there were elements of pure-blood thinking, an intrinsic part of Malfoy life for countless generations, that had been difficult if not impossible to reject outright. After all that time, it was in the blood, he would say, as politically incorrect as such an assertion now was. 

Oddly, Hermione understood exactly what her father-in-law meant and was not offended by the broader application of the concept, though she unequivocally rejected the notion of entitlement – because of inherited wealth or power or longstanding tradition – for anyone. This fundamental disagreement had made for some interesting conversations over the past few years, most particularly since Rory’s birth, each one of them chipping away just a tiny bit more at the wall that Lucius still had around his heart. Draco watched, and with each small piece that fell, with every indication that his father was becoming just that much more approachable, his own heart lifted and opened just a little. But he was nothing if not wary. He’d watch and wait a bit longer, as his remarkable wife made further inroads. 

Now was not the time to brood, however. It was their anniversary weekend, and he would make sure it was an unforgettable one.

“Right. Enough talk about my father or tutors or any of it. We’ve got an anniversary to celebrate. Come on, then. Up you get, Granger!” he said briskly, giving her a quick kiss. His sudden mood swing was a surprise, and Hermione stared. There was the familiar, teasing grin where a moment before, there had been a scowl. “Let’s not waste this marvellous day.”

*

Back at home in Arbour Close, things were proceeding apace, if somewhat chaotically. Much to the Malfoys’ dismay, their grandchildren were every bit as boisterous and energetic (and _loud_!) in their own home as they were quiet and well-behaved at the Manor.

“Do Draco and Hermione have them bewitched?” Lucius wondered aloud for the third or fourth time, watching Rory and Kieran arguing over a toy. Even simple verbalising between them was at a pitch and volume that probably only dogs should be able to hear. 

It was now Monday afternoon, and just now, the children were in the kitchen with their grandmothers, Lucius and Richard having been given a much-needed time out. Truth to tell, Claire and Narcissa agreed that the men were really just in the way, and had very little innate understanding of toddlers and their needs in any case. Better to ship them off to another room and get them out of their wives’ hair for a bit. The men had gratefully accepted the chance of a respite, retiring to the sitting room for a small but calming glass of sherry.

In the kitchen, a baking project was underway. Narcissa had taken out her wand automatically, but her hand was stayed by a gentle but firm touch from Claire.

“I think it might be nice, as the children are exposed to magic on a daily basis, if they learnt a little bit about the way things are done by ordinary people as well. After all, they do come from our side as well,” Claire said diplomatically, but there was steel behind the words. 

Narcissa smiled graciously and slipped the wand back into a pocket, stifling the small voice that protested the idea. Fair was fair, she recognised, like it or not. And Claire and Richard had had a great deal they’d had to accept, like it or not, ever since Hermione had received her Hogwarts letter. Nineteen years of acceptance couldn’t have been easy. By comparison, any allowances or compromises she and Lucius had already made, or would make in future, would be relatively minor.

The two children stood on step stools side by side. Both wore protective aprons of their mother’s, tied high up under their arms and trailing down to their ankles. Sleeves were rolled up, and Rory’s white-blond curls were pulled back into a high ponytail.

The project was a rich chocolate cake, the evidence of which was painted in broad streaks on both small faces.

“No, Kieran!” Rory scolded, pulling her brother’s hand from the bowl; a moment earlier, he’d left a perfect handprint of batter on his cheek. “Don’t put your hand in! You need to stir it. Like this, see?” Taking up a wooden spoon, she began to stir.

Over their heads, the two grandmothers smiled knowingly at each other as Rory plied the spoon with great concentration. Her little brother seemed oblivious, being far more interested in how much leftover batter would remain in the bowl once the mixture had been poured into the baking tin.

“She’s Hermione all over,” Claire chuckled under her breath. “Bossy to a fault.”

“Grandmama Narcissa and Grandma Claire,” the little girl piped up suddenly, tugging at her grandmothers’ hands with her own sticky ones. 

The two women smiled. “Yes, darling?” Narcissa answered.

“Could we make biscuits as well? Really big ones with lots of chocolate chips! They’re my daddy’s favourite. It could be a surprise.”

“’prise, ‘prise!” Kieran crowed excitedly, clapping his little hands together. “Want a ‘prise!”

“Well, all right, I don’t see why not. Do you, Claire?” Narcissa shrugged gracefully.

“I think it’s a fine idea, Rory,” her other grandmother said with a nod and a smile. “Let’s just get the cake into the oven and then we’ll see about the biscuits, all right? Don’t forget, we’ll need to make some frosting as well.”

That reply satisfied Rory, and happily, she went back to stirring the batter. 

“Done!” she announced a moment later, popping a finger into her mouth. 

And indeed, it was more than ready for baking. One confection in the oven and one to go. Before long, the luscious scent of chocolate filled the house.

Meanwhile, in the sitting room, the two men were unwinding over their sherry, oblivious to the antics in the kitchen. Lucius had got a cosy fire going, courtesy of his wand, and Richard leaned back in his armchair, every bone and muscle in his body relaxing at last. Playing horsey with a pair of nursery-age children had done something to his sacroiliac, he was certain.

“I’d forgotten how very active and demanding such small kids can be,” he murmured. “Hermione was a quiet child for the most part, though she did have her moments. What about Draco?”

A tiny smile lifted the corners of Lucius’ mouth as he remembered, and then, just as quickly, it faded. “My son was a hellion as a very little boy, very like his daughter. Always wanting to be outside, to run, jump… I knew from a very early age that he would take to flying brilliantly, and he did. He seemed to have no fear whatsoever. And his magic was beginning to manifest as well, by the age of four. He needed taking in hand, which is the reason we employed a tutor. Those wild inclinations needed curbing. He needed to learn restraint. We found an excellent tutor for him, someone who gave him the thorough, strict grounding he needed. Would that Adrian Fortescue were still alive. Alas, I believe he died several years ago. It’s my belief that Draco ought to engage somebody of that sort to tutor Rory. We saw yesterday what she is capable of, even at this tender age.”

Richard tossed back the dregs of his sherry and gave Lucius an appraising glance. “It’s Hermione’s decision as well, of course,” he remarked mildly. “They must decide together what sort of person would be a good fit for Rory. What happened yesterday indicates that she has a great deal of natural talent, I presume?”

Lucius nodded.

“Yes, well… it should certainly be encouraged, if she is to reach her full potential. But must her growth be at the expense of her innate exuberance? I don’t believe that such naturally high spirits should be repressed.”

“Do you not?” Lucius could see where this was going. It was evident that he and Richard had very different views on childrearing and the appropriate method of instilling proper behaviour, much less agreeing on a definition of what proper behaviour actually was. “I cannot agree. Everyone must learn how to function within society, and that generally necessitates a fair degree of conformity to accepted norms. Appropriate behaviour is at the core.”

“Stern words,” Richard countered with a small sigh. “Well, Lucius, it remains to be seen what our children will choose to do about the situation. I hope, however, that if they do decide to engage a tutor, that we have much the same Rory at the end of it. She’s a very special child, if a bit headstrong. Sometimes, that sort of trait corrects itself over time, you know, when a child learns that restraint is necessary in order to get along with others and make friends. Experience itself can be an excellent teacher. I expect my daughter had to learn that lesson when she got to Hogwarts. Believe me, if anyone understands Rory, it would be Hermione.”

“That,” Lucius replied, his tone clipped, “remains to be seen as well.” Finishing the rest of his sherry, he set the glass down and directed a pensive gaze toward the fire.

And that was that. Afterwards, there was a tacit agreement to avoid further discussion of the topic, and the sense of an awkward hole in the fabric of the weekend was felt by both women when they joined their husbands sometime later.

The cake was a resounding success, if a bit lumpy looking, as were the biscuits. Rory and Kieran ran to find their grandfathers, gleefully announcing their accomplishments, before their grandmothers rounded them up for a much-needed bath. 

At the end of the day, it was difficult to say who was more exhausted, the children or their grandparents. Narcissa had cast a thorough _Scourgify_ , utterly unwilling to tidy the kitchen the conventional, Muggle way, and Claire had wholeheartedly concurred. The subject of the need for a house-elf might even have come up once or twice.

After the children had been fed and put to bed, the four adults sat down to a much-needed, quiet dinner of their own. Draco and Hermione would be back the next day, and after a very full weekend with their precocious granddaughter and their nonstop, hyper-energetic grandson, both sets of grandparents were more than ready for the parents to take over once again. 

“I’d forgotten –” Claire began, and three heads nodded with instant understanding. 

“We all did,” Narcissa said, smiling wearily. “Not easy, is it, having children this age. It’s especially eye opening for Lucius and me, as we had a lot of help from our servants all through Draco’s childhood. And he was an only child,” she added. “That makes a difference as well.”

“As was Hermione,” Richard replied. “We had help too, though not on the scale that you did, of course. But it was necessary, because both of us worked. Claire came back to the practice part-time when Hermione was very small. Nevertheless, those hours did make a difference.”

“For my sanity, yes!” Claire laughed. “Fixing teeth was sometimes lots easier than dealing with the tantrums of a two year old.”

“Did Hermione have tantrums?” Narcissa couldn’t help asking.

Both the Grangers laughed now. “Oh yes, from time to time,” Richard said. “And when she did, they were remarkably articulate ones. She would stamp her little foot and cross her arms and let us know in no uncertain terms just how unfair the situation was.”

“And then give us ten reasons why!” Claire added, grinning. “She didn’t give up!”

Lucius shook his head slowly. “Now then, isn’t it patently clear that such behaviour was disrespectful? Surely you must see that, even if only in hindsight.” 

“On the face of it, perhaps, but not really. She wasn’t rude, just… assertive.” Richard was glad, suddenly, that the subject had been broached once again. He went on. “All through her childhood, she made sure that we heard her point of view. And we did listen. We didn’t usually agree or relent, of course, but we wanted her to know that we were giving her thoughts a fair hearing. I honestly believe that sort of respect made a huge difference to her sense of self-esteem and confidence, and to her willingness to stand up for her beliefs.”

*

  
  
Lying in bed later that night, fragments of the weekend’s experiences and conversations came back to Narcissa as she tried to quiet her mind and rest, one thing again and again: that she and Lucius had really done their son a grave injustice, raising him within the traditional strictures that they themselves and many generations before them had been raised and questioning none of it. Dissent with the point of view of a parent was not permitted. Disrespect was anathema. Obedience was both expected and required. In return, there was the privilege of extreme wealth and the certain knowledge that such privilege was rightfully theirs. A pureblood child in the upper class could then turn around and expect the same obedience and fealty from children of lesser means and less illustrious lineage. That, too, was a part of the package, as was the sometimes less than stellar behaviour that enforced it. Their son, raised in precisely this time-honoured way, had never had either the self-esteem or the confidence to stand up for anything that mattered. Instead, he’d learnt to be a bully and a follower masquerading as a leader.

A sharp pang of regret stabbed at her as she lay there, sleepless, staring up at the tree shadows dancing in the moonlight that dappled the ceiling. They’d made mistakes with their son, grave ones. But their grandchildren were little more than babies, still. There was a chance, now, to make things right through Draco’s children. Phillip Sparrow? She would have to inquire further, perhaps meet him herself before Draco and Hermione did and see what she could discover. And there was one more thing, too: Lucius. He would be her other project. There was much he still needed to understand and come to terms with. He might never reconcile himself to all of it, but for all their sakes – his and his son’s, especially – she had to try.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks, as ever, to my brilliant and wonderful beta and friend, mister_otter.


End file.
